


525,600 Minutes

by Tashilover



Category: Endeavour
Genre: Morse!Whump, Unfinished, it's a moostery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5546279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How long has he been gone?"</p><p>"It'll be two years next week."</p>
            </blockquote>





	525,600 Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> THIS FIC IS UNFINISHED.
> 
> Due to a saving glitch on my computer, I have to post it or risk losing it. You're more than welcomed to read it, but be aware it's still in its 'I'm writing down everything I think is cool whether or not it makes sense at this point' stage.

Morse has always been a skinny young man. Not just in face, Thursday's seen him shirtless and the boy didn't have a pinch of fat on him. When Thursday mentioned this to Win later, she kept insisting Thursday bring Morse home, just so she could fatten him up.

Thursday wished he took her on her advice.

"How is he?"

They had DeBryn there because they were expecting a dead body in the house, not Morse. Frankly, Thursday preferred DeBryn over other doctors. He was familiar, he was safe.

"Physically, he's fine," DeBryn said. "Perhaps borderline malnutrition. Once we get him back to a proper hospital setting, I could tell you more."

Morse was sitting in the back seat of the Jaguar, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He kept his head down, eyes averted, gaze firmly planted to the grass beneath his feet.

"Any theories why he hasn't spoken yet?" Thursday asked quietly, though they were too far away to be heard.

"Until I can make a formal analysis, I've no idea. At this point, I think he's not speaking due to a psychological trauma rather than physical. How..." DeBryn licked his lips. "How long has he been gone now?"

Thursday's cheeks tightened. "It'll be two years next week."

"Feels longer," DeBryn said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_You have enemies? Good. That means you stood up for something, sometime in your life._

The problem with being a copper was, you made too many enemies. Been in the business long enough and you start to jump at shadows, watching your back at every turn. If Thursday ever turned up murdered, there was a list fifty feet long of possible suspects who wanted him dead.

Morse hadn't been on the job long enough to get such a reputation, but enemies he did make. When he disappeared, Thursday went through every possible suspect to see who might have done it. The criminals Morse arrested, the friends who bore him ill-will, the dejected family members of victims he couldn't save- Thursday went through them all. Despite the obvious hatred by some, none proved to be a strong suspect.

" _Hello_?"

"They found him."

There was a pause on the other side of the line. Thursday waited, letting the information to sink in. " _How is he?_ "

"Skinny," Thursday said. He didn't want to tell Joyce her brother was probably traumatized to the point of mutism. "But he's alive and he's with me."

" _God... I... I have to wait till tomorrow to catch a train..."_

"Take your time. We still need to take him to the hospital for a full assessment. He's had a bit of a shock, you can imagine. I'd rather not overwhelm him too much."

" _Who did this to him? Did you find out?"_

Thursday gripped the receiver so tightly, the plastic groaned under his hand. "No, not yet. But we'll find him, and we'll make him pay."

Once he ended the call to Joyce, he called Win next.

" _You bring that boy home, do you hear me, Fred? I don't care what the doctors say, you bring him here. He needs a familiar place to stay until his sister comes. Do you understand me?_ "

It was almost a threat, the way she said it. Thursday was sure if he came home tonight Morse-less, he would be sleeping on the couch for the rest of the week. "Yes, of course." he stammered.

" _Good. I'm off to the store, then. I'll make him soup tonight."_ Then she hung up on him.

Thursday stepped back from the phone, rubbing his hand over his face.

Two years ago had been investigating the death of a young woman. It looked like suicide, but it was standard procedure to be sure it was, and Morse was left with the legwork to question family and friends. At the end of the day, Morse called in, stating everyone he talked to confirmed said woman had been depressed and her death indeed, was suicide. Case closed. Morse said he was going to catch a ride back with another officer, and Thursday left it at that.

The next morning, they found the car in a ditch, the officer dead at the wheel, and Morse nowhere to be found.

As one of their own, everyone in the station helped on the investigation. Many of them went door to door, holding up Morse's picture, asking if anyone had seen him recently. But days went by and the chances of finding him dwindled, people starting telling Thursday, in not so subtle ways, there was a good chance Morse was dead.

By the second month of his disappearance, Thursday was forced to agree with them.

Other cases got his attention. Life took him in different directions. Morse's desk was eventually given to someone else. The name on his cubby hole changed. His sister cleared out Morse's things from his flat. She sold a great deal of his heavy furniture but kept his records.

Life carried on.

Then one day, out of the blue, the station got an anonymous tip of a dead body rotting in an abandoned house, just on the skirts of Oxford. When they got there, Thursday thought they were given a false tip as it looked like the house had been empty for years. There was some evidence of someone living there; squatters most likely.

They checked the basement last.

There was no light, and when Thursday clicked on his torch, he nearly dropped it in surprise. There was a man, standing in the corner, his back to them. Even as the light shrouded him, he refused to turn around.

"Excuse me, sir?" Said Thursday to the man. "Can you hear me?"

"Sir," Jakes said, pointing. "Look at his foot."

A thick, iron shackle was clamped to the man's right ankle, chaining him to the wall. The length of the chain would allow him to move easily in the basement, but wouldn't let him go any further than to the base of the stairs.

"Oh dear Lord," Thursday breathed, realizing what this was. Looking around the room, he saw there were no buckets, no food trays, no books, no water canteens, no bed. Either someone brought this man the necessary essentials every day or his captors left him there to die from dehydration and starvation.

"Sir," Thursday stepped forward cautiously. "Can you hear us? We're the police and we're here to help you."

Very, very slowly, the man turned around from the corner. He was surprisingly clean shaven, his skin dirt-free, his clothes were old but wearable. A last moment ritual, perhaps. Feed him and clean him then leave him to die?

When he turned to face them fully, Thursday did drop his torch in surprise. His light fell to the ground, shutting off, but Jakes' torch was still trained on the corner.

"Morse...?"

Thursday said the name, quiet and broken. He took a staggering step forward, and Morse...

Morse smiled.

Gently, like someone greeting a stranger on the street after bumping into them.

"Go," Thursday said to Jakes. "Call for an ambulance, get Dr. DeBryn down here, and get something from the boot to cut that chain off."

"Here," Jakes shoved his working torch into Thursday's hand, then ran back up the stairs.

"Morse," said Thursday again, trying his best to sound as calm as possible. He came close, careful of each step like he was expecting to step on a mine. "Morse, it's me. It's Fred Thursday. Do you recognize me?"

The boy nodded, slowly. He didn't speak.

Thursday kept looking behind, as if expecting someone to stab him in the back. Why was Morse acting this way? "I'm not going to hurt you," Thursday said, unsure what else to say. "I'm here to help."

Slowly, carefully, Thursday laid a gentle hand on Morse's shoulder. No flinching, no reaction of any kind. He was practically expressionless. The only time Morse slightly flinched away was when Thursday tried to move his hand from the shoulder to cup Morse's cheek. The boy moved away from the touch, frowning in confusion.

Thursday was startled out of his memories when the door to the hospital room opened, and DeBryn walked out. Thursday was immediately on him. "How is he?"

"Skinny," DeBryn said. "Overall, healthy enough. He may need to see a dentist soon, he has a cavity that needs work. His throat is fine, so I can't tell you why Morse refuses to talk. He does understand, and has answered a few yes and no questions with a nod or shake of his head, so there's that."

Not the first time Thursday encountered someone who was shocked into silence. Morse would talk again, he was sure. "Alright. Anything else?"

DeBryn hesitated. "He does have a few... scars."

Immediately Thursday imagined cigar burn marks dotting Morse's arms. His jaw tightened. "What _kind_ of scars?"

"A few on his back, some on his chest. Mostly around his ankles and wrists, from what I suspect were obtained when he was chained. Repeated chafing and tearing of the skin around that area. The worst are on his feet."

"His feet?"

"More precisely, at the bottom of his feet. It's not pretty, Thursday. Someone cut deeply into the soles, preventing him to walk or run. With cuts like that, recovery would take months. The pain alone... it's a miracle he can walk at all."

Thursday had once seen a fellow soldier blown to bits, his legs strewn about, his blood and guts splattered everywhere like a chunky balloon had just popped. After that, very little could ever shake Thursday to his core. He'd seen too much to be affected by the sight of a little blood.

The thought of Morse, laying there in that... that _dungeon_ , only able to crawl across the filthy floor because his feet were too mutilated to help him churned Thursday's stomach so badly, the ham and tomato sandwich he had for lunch nearly made a repeat appearance.

"I want to bring him home," he said as soon as he was able to calm himself down. "My home. Morse needs someplace safe and familiar-"

"Why are you trying to convince me of this? Beyond the scars, he's not injured, just traumatized. This hospital isn't equipped for such things either. Go, take him. Like I could stop you."

He stepped aside, gesturing.

Thursday thanked him by patting his shoulder as he passed. Thursday walked into the hospital room, closing the door behind him.

Morse sat on the hospital table, naked feet dangling off the ground. From where Thursday stood, he couldn't see the scars DeBryn talked about. "Morse," he said. "DeBryn said you could understand me. Is that true?"

Morse blinked up to him. He gave a short nod.

"Alright. That's good. Can you answer a few questions for me?"

Another nod.

"Are you in pain?"

Shake.

"Are you hungry?"

Shrug. That meant yes.

Thursday pulled out his notebook from his coat pocket. "Here, can you write down who kidnapped you? Their names, physical descriptions-"

Morse shook his head.

"Morse, I promise you no one here will hurt you."

He kept shaking his head, his face scrunching up as if in pain. A small distressed noise vibrated out of his throat.

"Alright," Thursday said quickly, putting away the notebook. Good Lord, what did those bastards do to him? "It's okay, we don't have to do this now. Look, Dr. DeBryn gave me the clearance to take you home- _my_ home, until your sister comes. Would you like that?"

Morse was shaking. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to take Morse out of the hospital, maybe what he needed most was a psychiatrist; nurses who could look after his every need.

He nodded. He reached out, gripped Thursday's coat like he was expecting him to leave and kept nodding, over and over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday wouldn't exactly call Morse shy. Anti-social, maybe. Oh, what was that word he once heard DeBryn use? Introvert? Whatever it was called, Morse essentially did enjoy the company of people as much as he liked time to himself. He liked to talk when he had something to say. He was willing to go out with only those he felt comfortable with. He was a good listener.

Even after visiting the Thursday home dozens of times, Morse always acted so out of place and uncomfortable. It was not because he felt unwanted. It was because he had nothing to contribute to their conversations. Sam liked sports and comic books. Joan liked modern day music and dancing. Win was fond of trying new recipes and reading romance novels.

As Thursday escorted Morse from the car to the front door, he kept an eye on how Morse was stepping. Was there a limp? Did it look like he was in pain? All Morse did was shy away from the sunlight streaming through the clouds above.

With one hand on Morse's back- it was not as if he expected Morse to bolt, but after two years he was still trying to convince himself the boy was here and real too- Thursday opened the door to his home.

Wonderful, sweet Win was already waiting for them. She was smiling, taking a step forward with her arms outstretched, ready to hug. Upon seeing Morse, she halted in her tracks.

"Oh," she said, trying to catch herself from saying something possibly insensitive. "Oh..." She looked over to Thursday, who nodded to her.

She steered herself, then stepped forward, smiling gently. "Hello there," she said softly. She pulled Morse into a soft hug.

She barely applied pressure, and thankfully, Morse didn't pull away like Thursday half-expected him to. "Are you boys hungry?" Win asked, stepping back.

Morse didn't shake his head, but he also didn't nod or shrug this time.

"Something small, I think," said Thursday. "A bowl of soup and perhaps a few crackers?"

"Already have it warm on the stove. Sit down, love. I'll be back in a sec."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morse was struggling to say something. He kept opening his mouth, expecting for sound to come out, only to be disappointed when nothing did. He repeated the actions a few more times till finally Thursday said, "What is it you want to ask?"

Embarrassed, Morse pointed to a family photo on the wall.

"Oh!" Thursday said, catching on. "Are you wondering about the children?"

Morse nodded.

"Joan moved out a few months ago. She's with a friend up north. Sam went on a camping trip with his classmates. He won't be back for a week."

That was something Thursday was thankful for. The kids were nice, but they were also nosey little brats. Morse needed the peace and quiet. "In the meantime, you'll stay in Joan's old room. Win has already converted it into a guest room. It's still very girly, I hope you don't mind."

That got a small grin out of the boy. Morse shook his head.

"Here we go," Win said, walking into the dining room with a tray. "Here, dear," she placed down a small bowl of chicken broth in front of Morse. She also gave him a few crackers (unsalted, bought for Thursday's cholesterol) and a glass of water.

For Thursday she gave him a bigger serving, with actual chicken and bits of rice with the broth. "Thank you," he said, giving her a soft kiss on her hand as she pulled away.

She playfully slapped his shoulder.

Watching the affectionate display, Morse ducked his head, blushing. This look on him was so familiar, it was as if nothing changed. At any moment now Morse was going to open his mouth and crazed-sounding theories were going to pour out. If given the chance, he could probably solve Jack the Ripper.

There was nothing wrong with his throat, DeBryn said.

Thursday waited till Morse took a few spoonfuls of soup when he asked, "Can you try to say something now?"

Morse paused, his spoon half-way to his mouth.

"You don't have to say anything specific," Thursday said. "Something small. Like... _hello_. Or even your name."

Embarrassed, Morse lowered his spoon back into the bowl.

He couldn't even say his own name? "Can you at least... try? Please?"

There were quite of number of men Thursday knew who were pushed past the breaking point, rendering them mute. Most of them were in a constant state of shock, the intensity of their trauma refusing to let go of them. Once they were home, a place they knew was warm and safe, their ability to talk eventually returned.

As much as Thursday wanted to give Morse time to recover, the longer they waited, the easier it was going to be for his kidnappers to get away. They only had a forty-eight hour window here otherwise those men were in the wind. All Thursday needed was a description. A single name.

Struggling, Morse opened his mouth. He urged for words to come out, to say something. His head jaunted forward like he was gagging, but nothing was happening.

"It's okay, lad," Thursday said, halting him. No shortcuts. Hopefully Jakes will be able to find something after searching through that house from top to bottom. "Finish your soup."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"What did you find?"

" _There's evidence someone was living in this space. We found ash from cigarettes, trash and empty bottles. A few recent newspapers. Though that could come from your basic homeless person."_

"And with Morse mute, nobody would ever know someone was in the basement."

" _Not necessarily. On further inspection, it doesn't look like Morse was in that basement for long. The chain around his ankle was new. We also found no evidence of blood, hair, or piss. It looks like Morse had only been there for a few hours. I think someone purposely put him there to be found."_

"That's insane. Why... why keep him for two years and then return him?"

" _That's probably a question you have to ask Morse yourself."_

"That might take time we don't have. Keep looking. Whoever did this may not be done with him."

" _Yes, sir."_

Thursday hung up the phone. A small droplet of sweat rolled down his cheek. The relief he felt was slowly giving away to fear. If Jakes said was true, then that means Thursday and his house was being watched right now.

He wanted to go to the window and look out. He was relieved to have the kids out of the house now. Perhaps he should phone Sam, tell him to take an extra week off.

Tomorrow he was going to meet up with Joyce and leave Morse in her care. He didn't want to do that, afraid the moment he handed the boy over, he was going to disappear again. But Thursday needed to do his own investigating, to learn what else Jakes and others have found.

The next phone call he made was natural. "Hello, Strange? I have a job for you."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jakes had his numerous flaws; his sexism, his petty jealousy, his temper. Say what you want about him, but he was a damn fine detective.

Despite he was only a few years older than Morse, the two have never bonded. Never became friends. With Morse's brain and determination, combined with Jake's experience and charm, the two would be an unstoppable force. Shame Morse was a pretentious arse and Jakes was stubborn dick.

That being said, it surprised Thursday to see how hard Jakes was working. He's been up for over thirty hours now, refusing to let the others take over the investigation. When Thursday saw him that next morning, his cheeks were hollow, eyes gaunt, and he reeked of stale cigarette smoke.

"Sir, I think I found something," Jakes said, blinking rapidly to keep the sleep away. He handed over an address. "There's a house owned by the county, down near the edge of town. According to sources, they've been planning to mow down the house and turn it into a... shoe store or something. They haven't decided yet. So it's been sitting there for years, unused. There's evidence that someone once lived down there, so we're scouring the place to see if Morse was kept there or the homeless was using it."

Thursday recognized the address. The house Jakes was speaking of was this small, little thing built back in like, 1842. Thursday passed it quite a few times leaving and coming into Oxford, though because of the overgrowth of trees and weeds, he has more or less ignored it.

Jakes rubbed at his eyes tiredly.

"Go home," Thursday insisted. "Leave the foot work to the younger ones."

"I can still work."

"You're no good to me or Morse if you drive into a lamp post because you fell asleep at the wheel."

"Speaking of which... how is he?" Jakes asked, pitching his voice low.

Ah, there was Jake's humanity.

"I don't know," Thursday admitted. "I've checked on him a few times, and he's sleeping like a babe. He ate just fine, and despite severe injury to his feet, he's not limping."

"Injury to his _feet_?"

"Don't worry about that now. His sister is coming later today to look after him. Go home, Jakes. Sleep. I want to look at this house with my own eyes."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the outside the house looked like it was only a few days away from falling in itself. The windows were boarded shut, the grass was so high, when he dared to walk through it instead on stone path, snakes and frogs tumbled out by the dozens. The roof looked like it was ready to cave in, and all that was left of the fence was a corner piece, rotted and full of termites.

The inside was a whole other story. It wasn't clean, he wouldn't go so far as to say that. It was in better shape than it looked.

There was furniture, old and faded, clearly recently used. There were cigarette buds scattered on the floor, ash, and remnants of food. There was a tea kettle, a few clean cups, skin magazines and newspapers. The dates on the newspapers were recent, the earliest a month old.

There was also a toilet, though Thursday wished he could forget what he saw in _there_.

The basement gave more clues.

By the time Thursday got there, uniforms had already rigged up lights. The walk down into the basement was not the scary, spooky atmosphere he'd been expecting. The stairs were actually kept maintained, some of the planks had been replaced.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs and took a long, hard look at the basement, he knew without a doubt someone had been kept here.

There'd been a few times Thursday had come across a foul human being who kept slaves in his home. Sometimes it was women, sometimes it was their own children. Locked in a room and left there for hours. The signs was all the same.

There was a bed with unmatched sheets in a corner. It was just a mattress on the floor. Sitting next to it were a few empty glass jars, a half-used candle, and a well-worn bible.

There were other books too, old, tiny things that looked like were rejects from the library. A water damaged Huckleberry Finn. A copy of Sherlock Holmes with the spine broken. A complete work of Shakespeare with several pages torn out or were too damaged to read. A book of poems with annotations written by some long forgotten university student. There were also a few copies of contemporary best sellers, mostly whodunnit-sexy novels that sold for only a pound at pertol stations.

There were scratches on the wall. Fingernail scratches, doodles, check marks to count the days. There were also words, though they were too faded to read.

The most damning evidence was the iron screws imbedded into the walls. There were six of them, two on each wall face, evenly spaced out. Because they were low to the ground, at first Thursday didn't noticed them. He saw them when he took a step back to survey the room and the back of his ankle came into contact with it.

At first he didn't know what they were. They were just iron loops sticking out of the wall, for no discernible reason. He bent down, tapping his finger against it, feeling the wear and tear against the inside.

Then he remembered Morse had scars on his wrists and ankles from being shackled.

The actual iron chains in question were nowhere to be seen. "Are there fingerprints?"

"Partial," said one officer. "Most of them are on the brass doorknobs. In an environment like this, getting a decent fingerprint is next to impossible."

Was Morse kept here? Thursday kept looking for any sign that declared he was once here and nothing stood out to him. Morse had to leave something behind, he wouldn't go down without a fight.

What a godawful place to be in. The whole basement stunk of wet paper, curling and already growing mold in the middle of its pages. Though it was late Spring, it was cold down here. Drafty. It was also unbelievably noisy- every time someone upstairs took a heavy step, it sounded like they dropped a dictionary upon the floor.

The floor was also disgusting. This house was built during a time when basement floors were left bare. The dirt was trotted down enough, but it only added to the smell.

Except, as Thursday looked on longer, he noticed a few places of the dirt floor has been recently turned over. Like something had been dug up and refilled. "Hey," he said to one of the officers. "Have you bothered to see what are in these filled holes?"

The officer made a face. "Sir, it's safe to assume it's probably... where the person decided to defecate."

"Dig it up."

"Sir?"

"Get gloves if you have to. Dig up these patches you see here around you. I want to know what's buried in them."

"Sir, it's probably shit-"

"THEN CONFIRM IT! I DON'T CARE IF IT'S DOG SHIT OR HUMAN, DIG IT UP!"

A few minutes later there were three officers with gloves on, small gardening shovels in hand, grumbling as they bent down in the dirt digging up what they knew _for sure_ was crap.

They were almost right.

The first pile they dug up were bones. Small animal bones belonging to what Thursday guessed were rats. He sent those bones away to be studied, which only got him more glares from the officers around him.

Two piles revealed nothing. Another pile had a single tin can. Another pile showed burnt ends of matches. Cigarette buds. A rusted house key. A decapitated doll's head.

"Move the bed."

With a grumble, two officers moved the bed away. Underneath the dirt looked untouched. In the middle, barely visible, was another filled hole. Taking that as cue, Thursday motioned to the nearest officer to give up his gardening shovel. The officer gave it to him, and stepped away to allow Thursday to bed down.

It could mean anything. It could mean nothing.

It only took Thursday three minutes to dig up a weathered tin can of soup. Unlike the other tin cans, which were opened and in mid-deteroration, this can was still fairly in good condition. It was also sealed. Thursday took out his pen knife, stuck it in the lid and jimmied it open.

Inside was a folded piece of paper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Before driving to the Thursday's house, Strange quickly stopped by his own flat to grab a few things. Morse's sister took most of her brother's belongings back with her, but Strange managed to convince her that Morse's records would stay safe with him.

At first he thought she wasn't going to let them go, then relented. She said she never understood her brother's love for opera and the classics. Nobody in the household apparently did. It was probably best if the records stayed with a friend otherwise Joyce's mother was likely to sell them when her back was turned.

Truth be told, Strange didn't understand Morse's love for it either. He listened to a few of them and frankly he couldn't see the appeal. Unless you understood the language, it sounded like a bunch of people wailing like banshees.

_Why do you like Morse so much?_

That was a question Strange got so often, he started to keep a change jar just to see how much it came up. He didn't know why he liked Morse. He'll admit Morse was anti-social, pretentious, anal and cheap. It was a little hard to be friends with somebody who, with one word, could intellectually reduce you to feeling like an illiterate six year old. Morse didn't mean it, but he did it so damn often.

But there was something about him that screamed _trustworthy_. Morse was the type of man you wanted to follow because you knew he would lead you to great things. Not arrogant or ignorant. He took pride in his work but he didn't gloat. He didn't do it for the money or the glory. There was something so goddamn honourable about that.

Sure there was talk going 'round saying Morse was some kind of _bender_. Strange didn't believe in such silly gossip.

When Morse disappeared, Strange was first in line to search for him. Strange stayed awake for three days straight before collapsing at his desk in exhaustion. He worked the longest, the hardest, questioned everyone at least twice. But after two weeks of empty leads, Bright gave the order to focus their attentions somewhere else. Though Strange wanted to slug Bright across the face for the way he worded it, Strange understood other crimes were being committed and needed just as much attention.

He would always try to go back to Morse's case, go over old interviews and old suspicions, but his attentions were eventually pulled elsewhere. At some point, he admitted sadly, he just... stopped looking.

Sometimes he would be relaxing in a hot bath or enjoying a nice cold draft of beer when suddenly he'd remember of his friend. Was it wrong to be enjoying life's luxuries when Morse was still missing? Shouldn't he be out on the street looking for him?

Now Morse was back. He wasn't well, according to Inspector Thursday, but he was alive and that's what matters.

"Watch the house, Strange," Thursday ordered before he left to meet up with Jakes. "Report if you see somebody hanging about. I'll be back in a few hours."

Strange was not going to fail his friend again. "Yes, sir."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You can't take him home. Not just yet."

Joyce looked like she was ready to throw down her purse, reel back and slam her fist into Thursday's face. He tensed and quickly added, "We're investigating his kidnapping and he's our best lead yet. We need him close to confirm a few things."

Joyce visibly settled. Calmer, not any less irritated. "You said he can't talk. How is he to confirm anything?"

"He can still nod and shake his head. He can point. Besides his mutism, he has no other disabilities preventing him from communicating with us."

"Then I'll simply communicate for him. If you have questions, call me and I'll act as relay-"

"It's not that simple," Thursday said. "There's something else. It hasn't been confirmed but... I think someone is following him."

Colour drained from Joyce's face. "What? You mean the people who took him?"

"I don't know. Maybe. There are things that are not adding up here. That's why I think it's best he should stay here, with officers-"

"He was _with_ an officer when he was taken! I am sorry, Inspector, but my answer is _no_. He's my brother, and I am taking him home."

She shoved her way past Thursday, practically barging into his home. When Strange stepped forward, ready to stop her from going up the stairs, Thursday silently shook his head, motioning for him to let her pass.

Off in the kitchen Win had her arms folded across her chest, out-put by what was happening in her home and having little power to stop it.

"Strange," Thursday said. "When Joyce goes, I want you to go with them. Keep an eye out on both of them."

"Yes, sir."

"Has Morse talked to you? I know he was one of your friends."

"We talked. Well, I mean, _I_ talked. He listened. He was grateful I brought him his records, but he hasn't listened to any of them so far. He can write, though." Strange started digging into his coat pocket. "I asked him if there was anything he was in the mood for. I know when I go home, I'm always in the mood for my mother's chicken pot pie."

He passed over his writing pad. Thursday took it and read,

_No, thank you._

Such perfect handwriting. Thursday gave the notebook back to Strange. "Anything else?"

"He's... calm. I mean, like, really calm. He's been missing for two years sir, only God knows what happened to him during that time. Don't you think he should be a little more... I don't know... broken?"

Thursday made a face at him.

"My dad was in the war, sir," Strange explained quickly. "And to this day we still have to talk softly around him because loud noises startle him. I was expecting the worse, sir. Now I am..."

"Anticipating the worse," Thursday said. "I know what you mean. This whole situation feels like a ticking time bomb, doesn't it? Tell me, what do you make of this?"

He passed over the note he found in the dirt. Strange wrinkled his nose at the smell of the paper, but took it anyways. He read it out loud.

" _Don't believe them, it's not real. It's not real. It's not real_. This is... this is Morse's handwriting."

"I know."

"Sir, what the hell is this?"

"I don't know. But I am going to find out."

Without another word, Thursday stalked up the stairs. Something very bad was going to happen, he needed to stop. This was not a good idea, he needed to stop.

When he found them, Joyce was sitting on the bed with Morse, talking low tones to him, holding his hand. Morse was smiling gently at her, nodding every so often to show he was listening. He looked up as Thursday stood in the doorway.

Joyce stood up. "My brother agrees with me. He's coming home with me."

"He said that to you?"

"He... nodded."

"That's because he doesn't believe you're real."

Joyce gave a huff in disbelief, opening her mouth to argue, then considered it. She stepped away to look at her brother. Morse was staring up at both of them, a little confused, still calm though. "Endeavour?" Joyce said, kneeling down to his level. "You do know I'm real, right? Nod your head if you believe I'm real."

He smiled, then shook his head.

"You think you're... dreaming?"

He shrugged.

Suddenly everything made sense. Morse's calm, his muteness- Thursday stepped forward, pulled out the written sheet of paper, held it up for Morse to see and said, "You wrote this, didn't you?"

Looking back, he knew he should've found another way to handle this moment. He should've called in a psychiatrist, tell him about the suspicions Thursday was having and handle it gently. Thursday wasn't known for his gentleness, he was known for getting things done.

Morse stared at the paper, unblinking. At first he was surprised, his mouth slightly opened, cocking his head as if trying to read it without glasses. Then he started to mouth the word _no_ , over and over.

"Morse," Thursday said, dropping his hand and taking a step forward.

Finally, after a day of complete silence from the boy, a broken, " _No_ ," croaked out of his mouth. " _No. You're not real."_

He said it so quietly Thursday almost didn't hear it. As desperate as it sounded, he was glad to hear Morse's voice again.

"Endeavour?" Joyce prompted gently, placing a hand on her brother's shoulder. "What's going on?"

Morse looked like he was about to panic. Thursday's seen it a million times to a million boys. That wild look, the way his Adam's apple bobbed, his increased breathing and the way he looked like he wanted to scream but hold it in at the same time.

"Morse, what was our first case together?"

The scream was swallowed. Morse didn't answer right away, trying hard to think while pushing away his horror. "M-Mary Tremlett. With... with the professors at Oxford."

"Right. Who is Sergeant Jakes?"

"Jakes. Peter Jakes. Your right hand man."

"That's good. And Strange?"

"His name. Jim- James Strange. Has digestive problems."

Thursday didn't know why Morse had to mention that, but alright. "Do you know what happened to you?"

Tears fell from his eyes. "Yes," he hissed. "I know. Now. I know."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe he should hold this conversation back at the office, but Thursday didn't want to drag Morse back there. Besides, Strange was here and Jakes was expected to come along soon. That was good enough. Joyce also refused to leave and Win insisted everyone come downstairs for tea.

So here they were, seated at the dinning room table, with fresh tea and a few little sweets Win had baked earlier. It was actually a rather nice moment considering.

"They spent most of their time confusing me," Morse said. His hands was wrapped around the teacup, warming them. "It started out as little things. Down there, in that basement, I didn't have a clock. Didn't have a window. So I never knew if the day changed or not. They would bring me a newspaper with the dates wrong. They would casually talk about the holidays, talking about Christmas though I swore it had only been Easter a few days before. It actually angered me because they honestly thought I would be fooled by such things. I resisted for... I don't know. I knew what they were trying to do. I was able to keep count for a while."

Psychological warfare. Thursday didn't understand why go through so much trouble. Why not just kill Morse? Why the elaborate planning to confuse him?

"In the beginning I was at my most competent," Morse continued. "I was... determined still, at that point, to escape. At one point I almost succeeded. I managed to slip through my chains and I ran for it. I nearly got back to the station, I was only a few blocks away..."

He closed his eyes, bracing himself for this next bit. Joyce leaned over, squeezed his shoulder.

"I was picked up by another officer," Morse finally said.

"An officer?" Strange said. "But I was monitoring the calls for _months_ after your disappearance. I heard nothing of an officer picking up someone with your description."

Morse gave him an unimpressed look. "It's because he was working for them."

He turned to Thursday. "You have no idea how many officers were in on this. When I escaped, he took me back. To ensure I didn't try again, they cut into my feet. I was unable to move for months. After that, they increased their influence over me. They would leave me in the dark for days. Sometimes someone in an officer's uniform would walk in, declaring they were there to help, only to take me back after a twenty minute drive."

Thursday needed to leave. He got up suddenly, startling everyone at the table. "I need air," he said, stalking out.

He practically ran outside, gasping as the cold air hit his face. He kept going, away from his house, down the neighbourhood, ignoring everyone who passed him.

Thursday felt like screaming.

Officers from his own precinct had kidnapped Morse and tortured him. Officers who Thursday probably knew for years, who offered their help during Morse's disappearance, giving Thursday their sympathies, all the while hiding the blood on their hands.

_You have no idea how many officers were in on this._

Thursday thought about Carter. Carter, who was just as young as Morse, who died cold and alone in the streets. His arms were broken, his femur was broken, so he couldn't drag himself to get help. Carter didn't die from internal injuries or blood loss. He died from _hypothermia_. Those bastards had stolen his coat before they beat him senseless, then left him there to freeze. It probably would have been more humane to have shot him in the head.

Thursday said he needed air, but he kept walking, his fists trembling at his side. Why go after Morse? He was nothing- a little unknown boy who got his name in the paper a few times. Nothing he's done should've garner such attention. Why do this? What was the message here?

Up ahead he saw the Jaguar coming down the street. Jakes.

Thursday breathed out, trying to calm himself as the car slowed down next to him. "Sir?" Jakes asked, coming out of the car. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Thursday grunted. He cleared his throat. "Have you found something?"

"A few things. I'll tell you in the car."

Thursday was grateful to get in. Jakes already had the heater on and the warm air was wonderful against Thursday's skin. "Don't drive back to the house just yet. I want this conversation alone first."

Jakes nodded. He left the car idle. "I got in contact with a few of my old mates," he began. "I asked them if they knew somebody, a crime boss or the like, who enjoyed this particular torture."

"Like Roger Prince," Thursday sneered. Prince had enjoyed pressing hot coins against his victims' back, branding them as if they were cattle. It was his way of keeping track of those who owed him money. "So who likes to cut into people's feet?"

"Not feet," said Jakes. "Keeping a person prisoner."

Cold dread washed over Thursday. "You're saying... this has been done before?"

"I was... I kept asking to elaborate to ensure they didn't mean like a sex slave or something. What this is... is nothing more than an experiment."

" _Experiment_?"

"This is all just rumours but... you know how doctors, back before in Ripper's time, they needed cadavers and people would commit grave robbery to get them?"

"Yeah, yeah." Thursday remembered the story of Burke and Hare, who murdered random folks off the street so they could sell their bodies for medical study at universities.

"This is more or less the same. Certain doctors want to study certain traumas. What happens if you do this or that to a human body? According to my sources, there are doctors out there who want to experiment more on the human mind. What does it take to break it down, to trick it, to repair itself?"

"Jesus Christ... those sick fucks..."

Thursday never encountered the camps, but he heard the numerous horror stories from other soldiers. He has also heard the words, 'necessary evil' tossed around quite a bit when the data from those inhuman experiments came to light. It made him want to slug every single person who had ever used that word in his presence.

"Then why did they let Morse go?" Thursday asked. "Did they get what they wanted from him?"

Jakes lit up a cigarette. He took a long, hard drag from it. "I don't know. Maybe this is just the next stage in the experiment. Give a little hope... then take it away."

"Morse said this is what they did to him... that his captors pretended to be officers to trick him."

Jakes choked. "Morse said...? You mean he's talking?"

"He thought he was dreaming the whole time he's been with us. Only a few minutes ago I was able to... break through to him. Now I am questioning if that was something his captors wanted to happen."

"Has he said who did this to him?"

"No names, but once I can get him to a sketch artist, I can get some descriptions. However, we do have a problem. Morse said police officers at the precinct are in on this."

"What? At _our_ precinct?"

"It could be one or two officers, it could be more. In the meantime, I want our progress to be only between us."

"Yeah..." Jakes tapped out the ash through the gap of the window. "Sure thing. But sir, nearly everybody knows Morse is back. It doesn't take a genius to figure out you have him."

"You let me worry about that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Where is he?"

"Asleep," said Strange. "After you left, it's like all the energy drained out of him. I could see he wanted to talk more about, to figure it out, but he was falling asleep right there at the table. I had to practically drag him up the stairs."

"What about his sister? Where's she?"

"In the kitchen, sir. With your wife."

"What do you make of all of this, Strange?"

"As my name implies, sir, it's very... odd." Strange shook his head. "Who would do something like this? And for what purpose? I mean, I know Morse can be a bit rough around the edges-"

"Tell me, what is your honest opinion on Morse?"

Strange gulped. "My honest opinion?"

"Be blunt. I am just trying to get an idea why they would target Morse for this."

"Oh... um..." He messaged the back of his neck, thinking. A faint blush bloomed across his cheeks and for a second, Thursday fed into the idea Strange may be harbouring a _crush_ on Morse. "Truth me told, sir... Morse is a bit of an arsehole."

So much for that thought.

"He's pretentious," Strange continued. "He's unforgiving. For someone so smart, he's forgetful. I think he's purposefully forgetful, y'know? He loves to share his knowledge on books and culture, but ask him for a simple childhood story, and he shuts up. He's a terrible liar. He has terrible hygiene, his clothes _smell_ all the time..."

Strange stopped.

"But..." he began again in a softer tone. "He's determined. Driven. He can admit when he's wrong and be humble about it. When he praises you, you know it's the truth. He... he's trustworthy. He's not fake. I think that's what I like most about him, sir. I have friends I've known for years who would not hesitate lying to my face, but Morse will always give me his honest opinion. Even if I didn't ask for it."

Thursday chuckled. "Good." It didn't get him any closer to an answer, but it made Thursday feel more assured of having the right man on the job. "Very good."

"Sir, I assume you have a plan."

"I do. Sort of. I need help on it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DeBryn opened his front door.

He took a breath. "You do realize this is _literally_ the second place they'll look for?"

Strange made a face but said nothing. He wasn't wearing his standard uniform, instead opting for a shirt, jacket, regular trousers and shoes. Morse was dressed in a similiar fashion, except the hood of his jacket was pulled up, obscuring his face. DeBryn recognized those eyes from anywhere.

"Well, come in then," DeBryn said, moving away to let them pass. As soon as they were inside, he took a quick glance around the area, making sure no one was around to see them.

"I wasn't followed," Strange said. "I made sure."

"Well, you can't blame me if I feel a little anxious about this. I only deal with dead bodies, not live ones."

"Has the Inspector told you of his plans?"

"He did," said DeBryn. "Though I wouldn't call it a plan, but rather... shooting it from the hip."

Morse was quietly studying the hallway they stood in. His eyes glanced over the pictures on the wall, the books on the shelves, the small stand with a blue glass bowl for keys.

"You alright there, Morse?"

The boy stepped back, frowning at the question. Not a boy, DeBryn had to remind himself. Morse was twenty-four when he disappeared, he should be twenty-six now. Still young, but certainly not a child.

Jesus fucking Christ though. Those giant blue eyes gave him a fawn look, and all DeBryn wanted to do was sit him down and give him a cup of tea. Twenty-six year olds should not look like that.

"I'm fine," Morse said quietly. "Thank you for having me."

DeBryn tried not to show his surprise on his face. He had forgotten that voice in the past two years. "We once shared a car ride. It's only natural the next step in our relationship should be shared living space."

That got a little grin out of the boy. (Young man. Aw, fuck it. DeBryn can deal with that later.) "I got your room set up."

Though DeBryn knew Morse was suffering under some kind of mental delusion and he should prepare himself if Morse started acting out, he took note of how aware Morse was at the moment. As they walked up the stairs to the bedrooms, he was taking in everything, calculating and assessing his situation.

"This was your mother's house."

A small blush creeped across DeBryn's cheeks. Was it that obvious? His mother had given him the house in her will. "Yes, it was. What gave it away? The floral wallpaper? The feminine scent in the air?"

"Oh..." Morse said. "I was just joking."

Bugger. Leave it to Morse to make a joke in a completely serious tone.

"It is a very purple house," Strange said out loud.

DeBryn wanted to tell him to shut up, but his comment surprisingly prompted a giggle out of Morse, which was a rare sound in itself.

He showed Morse to his room, then Strange to his. He expected to go downstairs and start making tea while the two settled in, but Strange stopped him. "Hold on, doctor. Inspector Thursday wanted me to give you this."

He rummaged around in his knapsack. He pulled out something wrapped in a handkerchief, and handed it over to DeBryn.

Whatever it was, it was unexpectedly heavy, and he nearly dropped it. It was cold and hard, and it's shape was unfamiliar to him. DeBryn pulled back the corners of the handkerchief just enough to see.

He hissed and shoved it back into Strange's hands. " _A gun_?" He whispered low so Morse wouldn't hear from his room. " _You dare give me a gun?"_

Surprised, Strange pulled back his jacket to reveal another gun strapped to a holster around his torso. "I have one."

"That's your choice! I am a doctor, and I have a code to keep!"

"Your focus is on dead people-"

"Of which I will continue to do no harm! Put that away, I will not-"

"Look! When you agreed to house Morse here, you said you understood it could potentially put you in danger. The man in the other room is your patient and he needs your help, and if that means taking up arms-"

He shoved the gun back into DeBryn's hands.

"Then so be it!"

The gun weighed down in DeBryn's palms like it was made out of bricks. He stared unhappily down at it. "I don't even know how to use it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was through unfortunate timing to learn Bright always had stomach problems right after lunch. He was careful to not let it be known, considering more than half of the precinct already thought of him as a crumbling, old fart. Immediately after lunch, Bright scurried away, stating he needed an afternoon walk. In reality, he was ducking into the the bakery a few streets down to use their toilet. From what Thursday learned, Bright helped the owner a few years back and in return, has allowed him free croissants and use of their private toilet.

There, Thursday laid in wait. He ordered himself a coffee and a small pastry, feeling a little guilty because he could hear Win's chiding voice in his head. _Your cholesterol, Fred!_

A few minutes in, as predicted, Bright entered the store. Thursday watched him as he politely greeted the girl behind the counter, then scurried to the back where the toilet was. He didn't even notice Thursday.

In the meantime Thrusday ordered a fresh pot of tea with two cups. He waited.

Ten minutes later Bright came back out, looking relieved and more comfortable than he did walking in. He gave the girl a complimentary nod, took two steps towards the door and finally noticed Thursday.

Thursday often tried not to take sadistic glee during times when Bright was proven a fool. As frustrating as the man was, he was still Thursday's superior officer and a trustworthy one at that. Ignoring the blush and the way Bright floundered in his spot, Thursday waved to the seat in front of him. "Tea, sir?"

"Thursday!" Bright gasped, his blush getting worse. "What are you-?"

"I'm here to talk about Morse."

"You couldn't have done this back at the station?"

"No."

With an unhappy frown, Bright pulled out the chair from across Thursday. He gave the exit door a considering glance, as if he planned to run. With a huff, he sat down. "How is he, then? After you found him, I expected a lot more information to follow-"

"He says there are officers at our station who were involved with his abduction."

Bright stilled. His blush gave away. "What?"

Thursday pulled out a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. He slid it across to Bright. "These men."

"I..." He stared down at the list, quickly reading over the names. "Good god, man! Some of these men are decorated officers!"

"I know."

"These men have a combination of fifty years on the Force!"

Thursday rubbed at his eyes. "I know."

"And you expect me to believe these hard working individuals with families are kidnappers? An accusation coming from someone who is most likely traumatized and confused-"

Thursday slammed his hand on the table, cutting him off. The tea cups rattled in their saucers. "Traumatized? Yes. _Confused_?" He hissed. "No. If Morse said these are the men who kidnapped him, then these are the men who kidnapped him."

"Your faith in him as always been misplaced."

God, Thursday never wanted to punch Bright more than ever at this moment. It took everything he had to keep from shaking, to keep from grabbing the tea cup in front of him with the scalding liquid inside and tossing it in Bright's face.

"Sir," he began, keeping his cool. "I am not trying to ruin anyone's career. I do however ask to keep the news of Morse under wraps. Jakes and I believe he is still in danger."

"What do you mean?"

Thursday told him. While Bright might have never been Morse's biggest fan when it came to his radical theories, Bright was always willing to listen if it came from someone else's mouth. It took the better half of the hour, laying down everything Thursday had found up to this point.

When Thursday was done, Bright leaned back in his chair, horrified. "So you believe Morse is a guinea pig."

"Yes, sir."

"You said there were possibly others. Have you come into contact with any of them?"

"Jakes is running down names."

"And Morse? Where is he while you run after this?"

"I moved him," Thursday said plainly, showing no matter what was asked of him, he would not give him up. "To a safe house."

The message got across. Bright shifted uneasily, stared down at the list of names and said, "I am not saying I don't believe you, but understand I cannot play favourites, not even in a situation like this. I have to consider both sides or else risk having this whole department sued... but, as for this..."

He touched the list with the tip of his fingers and slid it towards himself. "I'll make my own queries. Researching this will take a delicate touch."

Thursday was hoping for more support. He'll take what he can get. "Yes, sir."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bright was not an idiot, he knew the nicknames given to him within the precinct. Old fart. Useless old man. Over the hill. Dumb as fucking rocks. In some ways, compared to Morse, he was.

But unlike Morse, who was still so very young and green, Bright understood that sometimes to win the game, you got to play by their stupid rules. In order to get more funding to pay for Christmas bonuses, Bright _had to_ suck up to the lousy, two-bit crooks he knew were dealing cocaine from behind the scenes. He _had to_ kiss the arses of well known wife-beaters because these morons were the ones paying for the precinct's police cars, their weaponry, for the simple luxuries like having an indoor toilet.

Blight did not fight in WWII (his poor eyesight made sure of that), but he did fight in WWI, so he knew first hand what it was like to lay in the freezing cold mud, smelling ash and blood every hour while his stomach growled endlessly. When he came home and had coffee for the first time in months, he started crying. If Bright had to turn his head away so his men could have a cup of tea during their twelve hour shifts, so be it.

That didn't mean Bright turned a blind eye from every rat bastard that scurried past him. He has never shied away from a child abuser or a rapist. If someone here really was using his officers for their sick, twisted games, Bright was going to hunt them down.

On the list were five names. Two of them Bright knew personally, has invited over for dinner, knew their wives, their kids. If they were as despicable as Thursday said, if so much rot was created right under Bright's nose without him noticing, he was going to retire immediately.

Riley Smith was a tall, slightly plump, balding man. In his younger days he was very handsome, but age has not been kind to him. He had pock marks on his cheeks, scarring him, and those simply deepened as he got older. He was also the third name on Thursday's list.

"Sir?" Smith rapped his knuckles lightly against Bright's door frame. "Did you call for me?"

"Yes, Smith, come in."

"Am I in trouble, sir?"

"Not at all. I just heard the news of your sister, is she alright?"

Smith's sister had recently caught the flu. It was nothing serious, but Bright asked with the same level of sympathy as if he heard she had lost a leg.

"Oh, she's fine sir!" Smith said, a little surprised. "It's just the flu. She's miserable, but she'll be fine."

"Oh my, I guess some people over exaggerated about the news. But everything else is quite alright, I assume? No exciting news to share?"

Smith shrugged. "Not that I can think of."

"Well, thank you for your time, Smith. I apologize for acting so rash."

"It's fine, Sir. Thank you for caring."

As soon as Smith left the office, Bright leaned back in his chair, contemplating.

Smith was lying. Bright had heard through trusted sources Smith had recently bought a new car. Police wages were not the greatest thing in the world, and though it was entirely possible Smith got that money from a recently deceased rich aunt or he won the lottery, it was unlikely he would keep such information to himself.

It was still circumstancial evidence, nobody in their right mind would take it seriously, but something about it set Bright's skin on fire. When Smith won a poker game, he bragged about it. When he found money on the ground, he bragged about it. When his wife gave him intimacy, he bragged about it.

Bright stared at the other names on the list. It was time to make several phone calls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Alright... let me see..."

DeBryn lifted Morse's left foot, holding the heel in his hand as Morse sat on the bed. The young man had his head turned away, his eyes staring straight at the flower painting on the wall.

Using the knuckle of his middle finger, DeBryn gently dug it into one of the vertical scars.

Morse hissed.

"On a scale on 1-10," DeBryn said. He gently placed the foot down. "How bad does it hurt?"

"Three," Morse said immediately.

"Morse, don't lie to your doctor."

"... six."

Debryn sighed. "I can give you something for the pain, but unfortunately at this point, the healing process will have to continue on its own. Can you run?"

"Not easily."

"How's walking?"

"Walking is fine. I can't stand for long periods, though."

"Hmmm... I will need to schedule physical therapy for you."

"How long till you think I'm ready to go back to work?"

DeBryn startled. "Are you joking?"

"No, I-"

"Morse, you cannot deceive yourself like this. You know you will never go back to being a police officer. You're too-"

"Damaged."

"I was going to say hurt, but if that's the word you want to use, so be it." Debryn huffed and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. "I am not going to lie to you, Morse. I am not going to sugar coat it. You will never become a police officer again. If you do, and that's a huge if, you will be put on desk duty for perhaps the rest of your career. You've been hurt and traumatized and that kind of injury doesn't fade away in a couple of months. And with the level of corruption in our police force and with you being right in the heart of it, to ensure your safety, it'll be best to keep you away from it. I'm sorry, Morse, but that's the plain truth."

"I know..." Morse said quietly, running a hand through his hair. "I realized that after... after the first time they tried to trick me with the rescue."

"Do you wish to talk about it?"

"I've nothing else better to do," Morse said. "I still feel like I'm dreaming, as if at any moment I will awaken back in that basement, chained to the wall. A part of me wants to, if only to stop the anticipation."

"Why did they cut into your feet? Did you try to escape?"

Morse was quiet for a long time. DeBryn was afraid he said the wrong thing, asked the wrong question, but then Morse said, "No. It wasn't a punishment. They cut into my feet, then they let me go."

As a medical professional for the police, DeBryn has seen his fair share of torture victims. People who were tied down and jabbed with lit cigars, fingernails ripped off, strategeically placed cuts and so on and so forth. But DeBryn has mostly dealt with corpses, not live victims.

To hear his young friend being subjected to something so horrific, for a second he feared he might vomit.

"I dragged myself for two miles to get help," Morse continued, his eyes staring off into the distance as if remembering something nostalgic and not traumatizing. "Just the moment I saw lights and I thought to myself I was going to make it, they dragged me back into the car and brought me back to the basement."

"So the whole point of disabling you..."

"To give hope then take it away. I believe, but they never explained it to me."

"May I ask you something? They stuck you in that basement for two years, playing mind tricks on you. How are you still... sane? Morse, it sounds like they tried everything in the book to break you. How were you unable to resist?"

Morse thought about it. "I... honestly don't know. I'm... it didn't feel like two years. So much blurs together.


End file.
